The Adventures of Drunk Ron Weasley
by Erodelbmud Tromedlov
Summary: The foils and fables and foul-ups and fun (and other F words) of our "favourite" characters. Ron Weasley gets another pass at fame. From the halls of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes to Hollywood? We will join Ron—and his bottle of firewhisky—on his sad, and uplifting, and depressing, and ginger romps.
1. The Annoyance of Parker Dusk (Part 1)

**Disclaimer** : The characters of the Harry Potter Universe are the property of J.K. Rowling. All canon characters, plots, and situations are not owned by me and I make no profit from this story.

 **Warning** : Rated M for language and violence.

 **A/N** : This Drabble series is my first foray into fanfiction, and was inspired by Simon Pegg's portrayal of "Drunk Ron Weasley" on Jimmy Fallon. I hope it'll be funny, I hope it'll be sad, I hope it'll be depressing—everything Ron is, and maybe a little more. Have fun with it and enjoy it for what it is. A big thanks to **ShayaLonnie** , my wife, for Betaing for me.

* * *

 **The Annoyance of Parker Dusk**

* * *

"Oi, twat!"

Parker Dusk shuddered, pre-flinching for what he knew was next.

"Make a shurkle!"

Before Parker could form the requested slurred _circle_ requested of him, a paper Snitch flicked from across two desks and hit him in the ear. He hated working with his self-proclaimed "co-boss"—Ronald Weasley—on Wednesdays.

Parker hated Wednesdays.

He had jumped at the chance to work for George Weasley, right out of Hogwarts. School had been an interesting experience for the pureblood Slytherin, who entered Hogwarts just as the famed war heroes left it. Some of the older students still remembered what it had been like under the rule of the Carrows, and many still treated Slytherins like they were just waiting to see a Dark Mark on them. Once Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes reopened, pranks were smuggled into the school, and Parker had watched with great interest as the jokes brought a sense of humour and camaraderie that had severely been lacking.

On a whim, he'd applied at the joke shop and been greatly excited when George Weasley welcomed him. It was a great job. It _still_ was a great job with one, not-so-tiny exception.

Wednesdays used to be "Hermione days". Days that had the beautiful witch popping by Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes for afternoon tea. Scones with clotted cream and cucumber sandwich wedges, all _looking_ fantastic—Ronald never shared food; Ronald only _took_ food.

Hermione had eventually stopped coming; Ronald started drinking, especially on Wednesdays. Those were the days where Ronald's co-workers all lost their given names and became "Twat", "Twonk", "Shitball", and, despite it making only Ronald giggle, "Scabber Bellends".

" _Parker_ , sir," he corrected.

"You didn't cash the Snish, Twat. So 'Twat' you shall remain." Ronald grinned his wide, _ginger_ grin.

"Did you want me to _catch_ the Snitch, or have it go through a _circle_?" he enunciated. "Weren't you a Quidditch legend? That _is_ what you told Trish in Wizard Accounting."

Ronald's face fell. Sobbing, he ran from the room—hobbled, really, thanks to an accident he had using his wand to drunkenly open a firewhisky bottle when a spider ran across his foot. He'd lost a toe in that "battle".

"Idiot survived a Wizarding war and two years as an Auror without so much as a scratch . . . it wasn't even a tarantula; just a house spider," Parker mumbled to himself.

George Weasley sauntered into the room followed by a sniffling, snuffling, very wet-faced Ronald. "Oi mate, the thing is . . . Ron is your boss," George stated and began quickly shouting down anything Parker said in defence, "and here at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes," he added, twirling his fingers and making a silly face, "we _do_ have fun and take the piss, but you still have to respect that he technically is your superior."

Parker puffed out his chest, stuck up his chin, and with great difficulty replied, "Yes, sir. I'll gather my things."

"That'd be bes . . . besh . . . besht . . . shplendid," Ronald stammered, mouth-breathing, wetly.

"Gods, no!" George corrected and put a hand on Parker's shoulder, leaning down to say, "Just keep it to yourself, or bring it to _me_ next time. Stay wacky," he said quickly, leaving the room, still trying to get Ronald's terrible catch phrase idea to work.

Ronald stood in the doorway, alone, arms wrapped around himself in an awkward hug. _Fuck you_ , he mouthed, snot running down lip, and left the same way George had.

 _You'll learn to regret that_ , Parker thought to the empty room, spinning his chair as he returned to his work, _or my name isn't Parker Dusk._


	2. The Annoyance of Parker Dusk (Part 2)

**The Annoyance of Parker Dusk (Part Two)**

* * *

"You shouldn't underminds me in front of the emploo . . . employs . . . empanada?" Ron asked, trying to pinpoint the right word in his drunken haze. Eventually, he landed on, "Underlingsh." The word slurred out of his mouth. He had another point to make to his older brother but was distracted by the fact the he was now hungry for Spanish take-away.

"Dammit, Ron! Dusk almost quit this time," George fired back.

"Good!" Ron yelled and then threw up in his mouth. Gulping, he winced. "Fuck. I think his ass is out of business. Out of _line_ ," he corrected, noticing that George was probably well aware that he'd been drinking on the job now. He smacked his lips and ran his tongue over his teeth as he thought, _That's weird. I haven't had sausages in a fortnight_.

"Eventually, Ron, his Slytherin pride is gonna kick in, and he'll realise we pay him less than the competition would. A raise for him will come out of your pay. Outside of your alimony, you won't have two Knuts to rub together in a sack."

The divorce had been highly publicised and, despite Hermione—who made exponentially more than Ron did—insisting that alimony was on a long list of unnecessary addendums that the solicitor had requested, the Ministry had decided to rule with tradition versus progression.

Ron's eyes watered. "She took the kids, mate. Hermione!" he yelled dramatically and tore at his shirt. "Hermione says . . . she says . . . she'll obliterate me right outta their wee heads! Poof! _Alohamora_!" he shouted, wand hung loosely in his hand. He had long since forgotten the spell Gilderoy Lockhart almost wiped his fragile mind with at thirteen. Instead of making the point he wanted to—or accidentally Obliviating anyone—the Unlocking Charm unzipped his trousers without him noticing.

"Gone. Gone, gone, fucking gone. Bollocks. House-elf shit." Spiraling, Ron had nothing left but looked like he wanted to say more.

"Scabber bellends?" George suggested raising an eyebrow. "How much have you drink, brother mi—?"

Ron giggled and interjected, "Rat dick." To answer George's unfinished question, he held up all ten fingers and then subsequently pissed himself with a shiver.

xxxxx

 _The gambit paid off_ , thought Parker Dusk. So far, every time George Weasley had reprimanded him, Parker had either started to slowly gather his things or outright said he would, and then the lone Weasley twin would lose his resolve and nearly demand that the Slytherin put his things back and get to work.

Nineteen times, he counted, seventeen of which had been—one way or another—involving Ronald Weasley. _Seventeen too fucking many_. Soon, George would stop making excuses to keep him, despite his inept brother. Sad really; Parker really liked his job. He didn't personally understand why George kept Ronald around. Perhaps he was using one brother to fill the empty space of his missing ear.

"Earhole," he mumbled to himself and made a note on a scrap of parchment, thinking that a good prank could come of that thought.

He didn't understand emotions very well, especially love and sadness—both so messy, so intertwined. He was far too logical to get caught up in such nonsense. That was an issue for plebeians. Parker Dusk was above such things. Crying, the crushing agony that was love, or anything that interrupted work, was beneath him. Some called that outlook myopic; Parker considered it pragmatic. Self-preservation was not _only_ a Slytherin trait; it was something he'd honed at a young age.

"Fuck it," he said out loud to his unadorned desktop, physically shaking the thoughts from his head.

He picked up the paperwork in his "In" box. As head of R&D, his responsibilities were few; there were only nine employees—"Wackyness Advisors" (gods damned Ronald)—of which exactly two reported to Parker. The first two forms were approving the same employee's time sheets for the week. The third was a paper; written in red ink, in the centre of the parchment—in Ronald's childlike scrawl—read:

 _BEETLE BUMS?_

That was all.

On a strip of parchment, Parker cast a Sticking Charm, attaching it to the original and read aloud as he wrote: "Is this a charm that makes someone have a beetle's bum? Is it a small envelope containing beetle bums? Is it an addition to Bertie Bott's flavours as Beetle Bums? Please . . ." He paused, hand aching, not wanting to write the last three words. He sighed, resigned to get back in good graces. "Tell me more."

Parker whistled for the office owl. An overweight barn owl named Zeus swung in low, landing next to his desk with a heavy thud. The owl gave a deep, guttural retching sound, then squawked and vomited a mouse carcass pellet onto Parker's desk into the "Out" box.

He handed over the letters and snatched up the paper Snitch. "This too," he added and handed it to the bird. "He pulled an additional envelope from his desk, glanced around the office to make sure he was still alone, and slipped it to Zeus. "This one goes . . . elsewhere," he said, tapping the name on the front and giving the bird a sly wink. As the corpulent bird adjusted for takeoff, Parker looked down at the pellet and, lifting up the tray in disgust, he asked, "Is it true what they say, you fat shit? Better _out_ than _in_?"


	3. A Time Before (Part 1)

**A Time Before**

* * *

 **One year, three months, fourteen days, and three hours ago.**

"Hermione!" Ron exclaimed. "Is it tea already?" He pulled a pocket watch from his paisley vest—the same one he'd received for his seventeenth birthday—and checked.

"Ronald . . ." She said carefully, "we need to talk."

"Absolutely, we'll talk over tea. Just put your things . . ." Ron pointed to his desk and realised she wasn't carrying her normal basket of treats. No scones, no clotted cream, no cucumber sandwiches, and no little cakes with orange-flavoured frosting and tiny, candied mint leaves.

He loved those cakes.

Hermione was holding only forms.

"No, Ron, not here." Hermione was looking at Parker, who was trying to work but was also unapologetically listening to everything. "It's not you, Mr Dusk," she said placing a lightly, courteous hand on the man's shoulder, "we just need privacy."

Parker breathed in her fruit and honey scented perfume and thought embarrassing things about her. "Not at all Ms. Granger." She had kept her maiden name, vehemently refusing to be called Mrs Weasley after everything that had happened with her mother-in-law before her marriage to Ron. "I was listening and this seems much too personal for just outside _my_ office. That said, I'll leave you to it." He stood gave Ronald a thumbs up and a weak smile and left, closing the door behind him.

"Ehm!" Hermione cleared her throat knowingly.

Parker got the message and stopped listening at the door.

With him gone finally she laughed slightly, mumbling to herself, "Such a Slytherin."

"You want me to leave so you can fuck him, too," Ron asked bitterly.

Hermione stiffened at his words and fought to stop the one tear that rolled down her cheek. "Malfoy was a mistake," she said softly, "you know that, Ron. We've been over this with the Ministry therapist; we've _both_ done terrible things to sabotage this marriage, and I—"

"Yours was worse," he said cutting her off. He was scowling, crossing his arms as he stood stock still and defensive.

She stared at him, shocked. "Yes, it was," she agreed. "That's why we've been having our focus days, where we both stop and focus just on each other; Wednesday tea. It's not working though, is it?"

Ron huffed. "You still know everything before everyone else," he mumbled begrudgingly.

Hermione pursed her lips in irritation. "I suppose you're right." She took a beat and then couldn't stop herself from adding, "The _Ministry lawyer_ knows, too." She handed him the packet she had with her. "I've got the kids waiting outside, we're Apparating to Harry's once I'm done. Go over the papers carefully, Ron." She tapped them with her finger. "The Ministry tends to side with the witch on these things."

"Divorce."

"Yes."

Ron turned and very quickly scribbled his name on all the required spots already tagged and pointed out with magic highlighter. He stood up, dropped the quill on the desk and gave her a smug look when she picked the papers back up.

"Roonil Wazlib," she said dryly, reading aloud. She might've laughed at how childish he was, if she wasn't so sad about the situation. She gathered the parchments, and cast a Sticking Charm to the corners to keep them neat. "Thankfully, they have _met_ you and actually have this 'signature' on file. Otherwise, they'd just think I'd have Imperiused one of the children to sign this."

He petulantly harrumphed, scratching at an armpit.

Meeting his gaze for the first time, she sighed. "I still love you. I wish we could've moved past this."

"If only you loved me as much as Harry's or Malfoy's dick," he snapped at her in reply.

She recoiled from the words, sadness giving way to offended irritation. "Is that the last thing you want to say to your wife?"

Ron stood there, blank-faced, but red above the collar.

"You're pathetic," she said disgustedly and left the room leaving the door open, storming away—her hair electric.

Both Parker and Ron watched as she left the shop, the former watching her arse as she moved. As one they said—in two entirely different tones—"Goodbye, Hermione."


	4. A Time Before (Part 2)

**A Time Before (Part Two)**

* * *

 **One year, three months, fourteen days, and forty-five minutes ago.**

Parker had been caught listening at the door—that was true—but Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was the manufacturing hub for Extendable Ears in the Wizarding world. Parker heard _everything_.

"If only you loved me as much as Harry's or Malfoy's dick."

Parker's eyes nearly bugged out of his head. _The hand she touched my shoulder with touched the dick that killed Voldemort?!_ was his only coherent thought as he backed into a tray of slugs, knocking it to the floor with a loud clang. He stood in full cringe, head sunken into his shoulders, grimacing for at least a full minute.

The rest of Ronald and Hermione's argument had carried on, and slowly Parker relaxed realising that he hadn't interrupted them—or they'd decided to ignore the noise. Hermione came through the door, full of sound and fury, signifying _everything_.

 _Gods, her arse looks great even when ballbusting her soon to be ex-wizard_ , Parker thought. He turned to see Ron watching her leave as well, a froggish frown plastered to his face. Quickly stuffing the Extendable Ear down the front of his shirt, Parker said, "Goodbye, Hermione," at the same time as Ron. Parker smiled thinking that he liked to see when she came to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes but _loved_ watching her leave.

"Was that _you_ making all that noise out here, Parker?" Ronald asked, already knowing the answer. Gesturing to the tray that had fallen on the ground, he scowled. "Those the slugs for the slug-flavoured tarts? Clean them up and report to my office." He spun on a heel and re-entered the office.

Parker thought he heard a sob covered by a cough as he bent down to clean up the mess by hand since the items had proven to be a bit fussy when touched by magic.

"Was that Hermione? I had a question for her."

The voice startled him into dropping the tray, and the gathered slugs fell back to the floor with another clang. "Fuck, Trish," Parker said exasperated, "either shuffle your feet or wear a fucking bell."

Trish Hamster—the finest witch accountant of her age—stopped in her tracks, scrunched up her face and began to tear up. "You don't have to be so mean, you . . . you . . . thestral vagina!" As the words left her mouth, her cheeks turned red in embarrassment. She had always tried so hard to be one of the boys by attempting dirty language but hadn't quite grasped the properly terminology. Plus, the sweet little Hufflepuff just didn't have it in her to be mean.

They both stood looking at each other, wide-eyed, then guffawed in each other's faces, braying donkey-like unattractive laughter. When the giggles had finally subsided, Parker said, "Point taken, Trish. I'm very sorry," honestly meaning the apology. "Hermione came to talk to Ron but left not really in a mood to speak with anyone else. Maybe you should just owl her."

"Oh, okay," Trish said, turning to leave but not before adding with a laugh, "and I'll look into getting that bell."

After Parker had gathered the slugs a second time, he placed the tray on a safer, less precarious, table than the first. He sauntered into his shared office with Ronald, his belief in his own superiority firmly cemented with the full knowledge of everything that had just happened in this room.

Ronald sat at Parker's desk. There were two shot glasses set before him. One was in a puddle of firewhisky, clearly already in used. The other glass remained dry. "You get started without me, boss?" Parker asked conversationally.

Ron looked up at him, eyes wet, paisley vest undone revealing a shirt covered in all manner of stains. Parker wondered if he'd taken a few gulps from the bottle before he'd even found the shot glasses. Seeing the other man noticing the shirt, Ron sadly explained, "She said I get them so dirty she can't charm or curse the stains out." He grabbed the hanging vest material. "I only wore this fancy shit because of _her_ , and if she's gone then . . . well . . . fuck it. Why try? Who am I trying to impress? Huh? Who? Huh?"

"Well, there are the employees," Parker suggested, grabbing the firewhisky bottle and filling his own glass without spilling a drop. "This stuff isn't cheap, you know."

Already bleary-eyed, Ronald nodded in agreement. He slid his glass under Parker's hand that was still tipping the bottle, receiving another perfect pour. "I getcher meanin'. Don't want to be wasteful." He downed the contents in the glass in one go and then leaned forward to slurp the puddles from the desk.

Having his fill of desk juice, Ronald sat back slowly and put a hand to his mouth. He pulled from his tongue a hair just under three inches long. Holding it up to his right, irritated eye, he pronounced, "Yours. Mine's gingah . . . gringe . . . grint . . . red." He grabbed Parker's hand splaying it out and placed the hair into the centre of the palm. Then, playing the man's hand like a puppet, cocooning his fingers into a fist protectively around the hair; patting it, once closed, as though he had bestowed upon him a great gift.

Parker stared at him incredulously and dryly muttered, "Thanks."

"Never been one to keep another's property," Ronald said, happy in the fact that, while many things could be said of him, "burgled a hair" was not one of them.

"So, Ronald, sir," Parker began carefully, "that . . . in here . . . that was rough, wasn't it? Are you okay?"

"Well, me boy," the ginger man-child replied thoughtfully, leaning back in the chair and putting his hands behind his head, "sometimes you gotta . . . you gotta . . . you gots to lay the hammer down. Let 'em know youse the boss. Then later, when theys apologisin' over tea, you know that they know that you . . . that you ummm . . . you're a boss man."

"I see," the Slytherin replied carefully, "but—"

Ronald noticed Parker had not drank the firewhisky in his glass and gave the universal palm upward wave signal meaning "drink up."

"Oh, yes, quite right," Parker acknowledged and downed it in one. "Now, and this is hypothetical . . . that is to say . . . what she never comes back for tea again?"


	5. Dead Brothers Club

**A/N:** When I first started this, I just kind of saw it as a way to write some one offs about Ron, but due to my own interest (as well as readers) I've decided to take it further and expand some of the OCs, so I'm no longer going to consider this a Drabble series. Also, since everyone has been asking about Hermione's indiscretions, I'm also going to be updating the M rating to include potential sexual content in future chapters. You can also now find me on tumblr: erodelbmudtromedlov

* * *

 **Dead Brothers Club**

* * *

 **Twenty Years Ago...**

"As I was saying," Dennis Creevey shouted over the din of new students, "Headmistress McGonagall wants a mixing of the student body. That is why I, a prefect for Gryffindor House, will be walking you around and introducing you to the Slytherin rooms in the dungeons. Before we begin, are there any questions? Yes, you."

"Prefect Creevey, sir," Parker Dusk—the first boy to be sorted into Slytherin following the end of the war and the reopening of Hogwarts—dropped his outstretched arm, "you were here. For the battle of Hogwarts, were you not?"

"Now is not the time for war stories, Mr Dusk," Dennis curtly said, beginning to search for any other hands raised amongst the new boys and girls.

"Sorry, sir, but no. I just needed to ask you . . . did you know my brother? Brock?"

Dennis sadly smiled. "Yeah, I knew Broccoli . . . ehm, _Brock_. He was actually friends with my brother first and then . . . then me."

"Then, sir, please," the eleven-year-old begged, a single tear rolling down his cheek. "I need two things of you: tell me how my brother died; then please," he said, heart aching, "tell me how he lived?"

Over the following months, Parker Dusk and Dennis Creevey spent most of their time outside of classes together talking about their connection. Brock Dusk had been placed in Gryffindor, but only because his fear of Voldemort had led to him pleading with the Sorting Hat to place him _anywhere_ but with the snakes. Being brave enough to go against his parent's wishes, and not focused very much on ambition was enough to place him.

The night Voldemort attacked the school, the three Gryffindor boys—the two Creevey brothers and Brock Dusk—had been escorted out for being too young to fight alongside Harry Potter and the other older students. They had, however, seen a few older Slytherins sneaking in, talking about finding and killing Harry. That was all they'd needed to hear to know they had to go back and stop them. Shortly after re-entering the school, however, all hell had broken loose. A stray hex had hit Colin, killing him instantly and thankfully, painlessly.

Dennis had froze seeing how small and fragile his older brother had looked in death. He realised _he_ was even smaller and was struck with fear not knowing what he could really do in this fight against adults that wanted him dead.

"Dennis," Brock had said, crying, "your brother loved you so much. Over the years, I've grown to love you too. But . . . differently. I promised myself _and_ Colin that I'd never let anything happen to you. I'm sorry. _Petrificus Totalis."_

Brock had easily lifted Dennis and carefully placed him in a cloak cupboard. "I had hoped that when I told you everything, we would be able to talk about this and that maybe you'd feel the same way. That you would . . . if you _could_. . . return _this_." Brock had kissed Dennis gently, holding him, as if he knew there would never be another.

A cackle from behind had Brock freezing in place, eyes wide. "Hiding among the coats and galoshes, ickle baby?" Bellatrix Lestrange asked, patronisingly.

"Oh, gods," Brock whispered. "Will you at least let me face you?" he asked her, looking Dennis in the eye pleading silently for him to stay quiet. He closed the wardrobe doors so that the insane witch couldn't see Dennis and then turned to face her, wand drawn.

"Expel—" was all Brock was able to get out before he was blasted back against the wooden doors, breaking the latch.

 _"Nooooooo,"_ Dennis silently screamed. The Body-Bind Curse kept him paralysed; able to see and feel everything but unable to move to help. He could still feel the soft, wonderful kiss on his lips, the memory forever burned into his mind. _"Please please please please!"_ No sooner had he thought _"Don't be dead"_ the spell ended.

Dennis relaxed and caught himself against the broken door, preventing himself from falling and making noise at the same time. He stuffed the nearest cloak into his mouth to stifle the sound of his sobbing. If he was free of the spell, then that meant the only boy he had ever loved was as dead as their chance at happiness together.

In an attempt to not let Brock die in vain, Dennis stayed in the cupboard to keep himself alive.

It was hours before someone found Brock, and Dennis was relieved that it was safe to call for help. It had been several more hours before anyone could get him to move from the sides of his brother and . . . boyfriend? He took Dreamless Sleep and, aside from attending the mass funeral for those lost in battle and the subsequent private family gatherings, he did not remember the following weeks.

Parker had cried for days after Dennis had recounted everything. He hadn't known his brother was gay but there were things that Brock had said and did on occasion that had made him at least suspect. He was glad that, if even for just those final moments, Brock had been happy. However, he was so angry that he had never gotten to see the potential of what that love could have held.

Parker worked hard during his first year at Hogwarts and, other than pranks, jokes, and his friendship with Dennis, he found few distractions from his schoolwork. Parker had seen value in the distractions, value in laughter and in humour. These values were not shared amongst his fellow Slytherins, who found them to be a waste of time and distasteful in the aftermath of war—especially considering the delicate situation that Inter-House unity was..

Parker's first year at Hogwarts had been Dennis's last. After graduation, Parker was all alone, defending his love of silliness and distraction in the dungeons. His fellow Slytherins had almost broken him when he received an owl just before Christmas. His parents had left the country for work with the Ministry—trouble with the Wizarding school in America—so he been resigned to staying at Hogwarts for the winter hols. The letter the owl had brought him was from Dennis, inviting Parker to stay with the Creevey family. It was the last line of the invitation, however, that had drawn Parker's interest and would change his life:

 _While you're here,_ it read, _I want you to meet another member of our sad little "brothers with dead brothers club". George Weasley._


	6. An Auspicious Meeting

**An Auspicious Meeting**

* * *

 **Nineteen years ago**

"Thank you for meeting with me, sir."

Parker sat in the break room of Diagon Alley's own Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes next to Dennis Creevey in a love seat. His attention was focused on George Weasley, who, like every day since the Battle of Hogwarts, sat alone—an empty chair beside him.

George chuckled. "I realise I'm a holey man," he said, pointing to the side of his head where an ear should be, "but I'm no _sir."_

"That's just Parker," Dennis dismissed. "Anyone an hour older than him is a 'sir'."

Parker's eyes dropped so fast to his feet, he knocked his teeth together. He whisper-screamed to Dennis, "You said not to look at the ear stump! He pointed right to it!" He was trying to hide what he was saying by turning his head away from George and muttering the words without moving his lips. "What do I do?! I'm blowing it! Fuuuuuuucck."

Dennis and George both laughed uproariously.

"Missing but operational," George advised.

The Slytherin emitted a high-pitched squeal in horror as he realised that George had heard everything he'd said. His embarrassment only fed the laughter of the other two.

"Relax, kid," George soothed. "We're fucking with you. Dennis here says you know jokes and pranks."

"Yes, sir, eh, _George_ ," he corrected after getting "the eye" from Dennis and an eyebrow raise from the redhead himself.

"Tell me about the Extendable Ear."

"Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes; catalogue number 895678; sells for one Galleon, but it's manufactured for less than fifty Sickles. Only Triple W makes them, so you pretty much run the market and get to name your price. No one else has ever come close to replicating them." Parker briefly thought about the time last year, when he lost his eyebrows—and for a short time his hearing—in a duplication attempt. "Believe me, I've tried."

"Shit. I'm gobsmacked," George said with a laugh and turned to Dennis. "Did _you_ know that?"

"Why the fuck would _I_ know all that?!"

"Well, I _make_ the damn things, and _I_ didn't know all that! All right, P, you passed that test. Now the next: who fought Harry Potter at the Battle of Hogwarts?"

Parker weighed his answer before flatly replying, "Voldemort." The other two men continued to look at him, waiting for more. Parker lifted a daring eyebrow. "Was I supposed to shy away? Gasp? Scream? Only living beings have power, names do not. I don't say the name because I am brave or foolish, merely because he is dead and the sooner we stop stigmatising his name, the sooner we can move past everything that happened. Everything we've _lost_."

"Hear, hear." George enthusiastically clapped and whistled. "Now for the last test. Creevey here tells me you're working on something incredible. Tell me about it." He leaned back in his chair, tenting his fingers like a supervillain.

"I have _two_ ," Parker clarified, gauging their reactions as he spoke. "One is a prank the other . . . is not."

George's eyes glittered with amusement. "Ooo, which to pick first: trick or treat? It _is_ a treat, isn't it? I'll _like_ the other thing?"

"I hope so," Parker genuinely replied.

"Trick!" George decided, moving to the edge of the seat.

"All right. Do you know anything about Muggles?" Parker asked George specifically, already knowing that Dennis would have ample knowledge, being Muggle-born. George, however, made a teeter-totter gesture with his hand, fingers splayed, indicating some but not much. "Do you know what a television is?" At George's negative headshake, Parker explained, "So, my parents work for the Ministry, my mum specifically with American relations. When I was little, they took me everywhere with them, so I saw a lot of different Americans and their homes. In each of these homes—Muggle or not—was a television. A television is a box that runs on electricity."

"I remember Harry telling my dad about that once!" George excitedly interjected. "It's like captured lightning, right?" He looked so proud of himself Parker laughed a little.

"Right. Muggles use this to power everything: lights, air, cooking," he said and ticked on his fingers, "but especially televisions. They're like . . . like a play. Muggles use cameras to record them, like a photograph but it captures audio as well as visual and can last hours. It's like a pensieve in a box. Better yet, Imagine a portrait that puts on a play."

George grinned. "You shoulda just led with that."

Parker flushed a bit. "Quite right, sorry. Anyway, my idea is that we get a number of televisions, and put them up in your store front window. We hang a frame around the box and a placard at the bottom with a name. All the purebloods will be talking to them as though they're portraits, and screaming at them till they're blue in the face. However, just like a pensive, the people in the television can't hear you. On top of that, the Muggle-born kids will get a good laugh out of it. The display will gain your store traffic, it'll bring snooty purebloods down a peg, and it could help the Muggle-borns see a crack in the pureblood veneer of our society. Win, win, win. The only thing I can't figure out myself is using a Muggle device in a magical area."

George grinned, eyes glimmering with intrigue. "You leave that to me. Now, about the treat?"

Looking a bit less sure of himself, Parker mumbled, "It's a work in progress," before carefully adding, "and it's not one hundred percent. Even when it _does_ work it doesn't last long."

"Show us," Dennis said, smiling. "You're safe in the 'Dead Brothers Club'."

"Funny you mention that," Parker said raising an eyebrow for effect. He reached into the satchel he had at his side and pulled out a blue, plate-sized disk. The object had engraved runes around the edge, and a bowl sat in the middle that had a smaller receptacle in the centre of that.

"Also like a pensieve, the bowl here holds memories which I'm hoping to integrate fluidly once I can get the magic to last longer. Let me show you what it does without all the bells and whistles." Parker spit into the receptacle in the centre of the bowl and then brushed his fingers against two of the runes on the right side of the disk before placing it on the floor. He stopped when he pulled out his wand and looked up, embarrassed. "Oh . . . the umm . . . Underage Magic Restriction."

George smirked. "As much trouble as we get up to in here? My brother and I figured out a way around that years ago. Just solemnly swear not to tell anyone."

Parker grinned in reply and then aimed his wand at the plate, muttering a charm. A light began to flow in the centre, and spinning grey matter rose from the bowl, eventually taking on colour and light. After just a few moments, stood a _second_ Parker Dusk.

"Hello," it said in a much friendlier tone than the original.

"I set it for him to be nice," Parker confirmed proudly, amused by the shock on Dennis and George's faces.

"HOW?!" George yelled in awe, holding his arms out in toward the . . . copy.

Parker scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "Well, my parents work for the Ministry. Mum's one of the people in charge of the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Dad's a researcher."

"Unspeakable," George said with a snort.

" _Researcher_ ," Parker corrected, clearing his throat loudly. "After Voldemort fell, a lot of my dad's projects were scrapped. Things he was forced to look into," he added firmly. "I broke into his files when he brought them home and the schematics for this fell out. From what I could tell, they might've used it for creating . . . golems or—"

"Soldiers," Dennis said, his expression one of horror. "Bloody hell. Could you imagine how many more Death Eaters, even fake copies that would've stormed Hogwarts?"

The pregnant pause eventually faded and Parker gestured to his copy, who was wearing a stupid smile that looked awkward compared to the suddenly serious faces in the room. "Basically, he is another me. With the runes I implemented, I can set any emotions I want for him to have and can enter in my memories with the bowl. I need to work on that, though. Make . . . a copy somehow. I'd like to keep my memories where they are."

"What would you like to do?" the doppelgänger asked in a jolly tone. "We can play a game. We can go outside. We can even talk about stuff. My vote is for playing outside!"

"I'm sorry, you don't have much time left," Parker said coolly.

"Oh," Parker Two said sadly, "Goodbye then." The look-alike then simply faded away into nothing.

"So, what do you think?"

George wasn't looking at Parker or his disk anymore; he was staring at the empty chair beside himself. A minute passed, two, then five. Finally, he spun so fast the other two barely registered the movement. A giant grin was spread from ear to ear. "Kid, you've earned yourself a butterbeer!"

Hours later, they watched Parker Floo away with handfuls of WWW merchandise. George put a hand on Dennis's shoulder. "That little snake has a job for life here," he said with a grin.

Dennis chuckled. "Lucky him. Don't let him know that or he'll end up bragging around school. The last thing he needs is Filch getting on his case for being dragged into your nonsense."

George brushed off the threat with a laugh. "Merlin, no. Hell, I'll even make him apply and go through the motions of an interview just for a laugh."

Dennis smiled. "His brother would've loved you."

"The way I hear it, redheads weren't his type," George said and winked at Dennis, who smiled softly, blushing. "It's a damned curse on my shop that Parker's only in his second year. I'm half tempted to kidnap him from Hogwarts, but Old Minnie scares me something awful."


	7. Returning to Ron (Part 1)

**Returning to Ron (Part One)**

* * *

 **Present Day**

Ron sat in his comfy chair. Gods, how Hermione hated this chair. Held together by beer, firewhisky, and mustard, she had claimed. Ron thought it smelled of sausages. Its springs were broken, and the cushions had gone soft; sitting in the chair was like getting the hug that he couldn't get anywhere else. His right hand held his head, elbow sunk deep in a split-seemed arm; his left hand was draped over a glass with his middle finger drawing circles around the mouth.

Ron coughed. His head was halfway between buzzed and aching enough to split. He grasped at a bottle of aged firewhisky that he'd purchased for himself for a birthday—the one he'd had since she left.

Filling the glass halfway, Ron waited a tick before changing his mind and pouring more of the amber liquid to just before spilling over. He wiped the dust from the neck of the bottle off on his trousers, putting his hand in the inside of his knee and closing his leg to pinch, thus saving a second go at a wipe. He pitter-pattered his fingers on the top plane of whisky, flicking the excess wet away, drying the fingertips on the left armrest.

He looked at the ripples left in his drink and sighed, reminded of the last night he _thought_ he'd had a faithful wife: a year and a half ago.

Hermione had been working very hard at the Ministry. Ron had _never_ seen her working so hard except maybe back during their third year at Hogwarts when she'd been using that damned Time-Turner. She'd been working in Magical Law Enforcement and, yet again, that fucking snake, Draco Malfoy had been in trouble with the law. Malfoy had been accused of less than ethical activities while he was working to regain his family fortunes after their vaults had all been seized following the Battle of Hogwarts for war reparations.

Six months before Hermione started dealing with Malfoy, Ron's mother had passed away. No Dark Magic had been involved. Her health hadn't ever been quite what it had been before the war and one day, she just quit. She'd been helping to plan a wedding for Fleur's sister and had over-exhausted herself in the effort. Molly Weasley had made herself quite a terror, many times as controlling and overly-stressed as she'd ever been when her children were younger. The people who had been around her the day she died, had recounted detailed arguments with decorators, seat-arrangers, those hanging streamers, one house-elf, and even those gods-be-damned garden gnomes.

Molly passed on and left behind a collection of cookbooks for her daughters in law, a bit of money squirrelled away for her children, a collection of family heirlooms for the grandkids, and she left her famous temper behind to Ron, who mixed that and his grief in a bottle of firewhisky and refused to resurface.

There had been arguments before his mother died. He and Hermione had always had a bit of passionate relationship and they differed greatly in opinion on a lot of subjects. However, before Molly's death and Ron's subsequent reliance on drinking, the fights were becoming less heated and more . . . tired, as though each was wondering when the arguing would ever just stop.

And then Molly died and Hermione hadn't seemed very broken up about it. At least, not as broken up as Ron had insisted she be. Then again, who could blame Hermione after what had happened with Molly before the wedding?

Oh yeah. . . Drunk Ron could blame her.

He was a mean drunk, but he dealt blows with words and accusations the same as he'd done when they were children. Never one for pugilism, in or out of the bedroom. With whisky, though, came whisky dick. So there wasn't really _anything_ at all happening in the bedroom those days.

Then there were the children. Gods, the children. Rose and Hugo had started leaving him notes, scribbled in quill on scraps of parchment: _Daddy, please don't drink._ Guilty, Ron began hiding his bottles in the garden or the shed, anywhere he _thought_ was safe from prying child eyes. That's when they'd started sending him Howlers.

Eventually, he sent the kids to stay with Bill, telling his brother that he and Hermione needed some peace and quiet to work it out.

The Ministry, to be honest, had been very helpful in their own way. They had Ministry therapists that Ron and Hermione had been to see, trying to save what relationship they might've had left.

Hermione had cried. Every time.

Ron hadn't. Not once.

At one of the appointments early on, Ron had truly _tried_ to be there to listen. That was when he heard it: Hermione—the eternal swot, the study—had failed to answer a question asked by their Ministry-appointed Wizard therapist. Well, she hadn't _failed_ so much as she had said, "I don't remember."

The therapist had asked, "Why not?"

Ron had looked up suspiciously and said, "Wot?" Hermione didn't remember something? She remembered everything! She'd always remembered everything. She remembered ingredients to potions she hadn't brewed in ten years. She remembered the birthdays of every one of his nieces and nephews, the anniversaries of each of his siblings and their spouses. She could recite _Hogwarts, A History_ from beginning to end by memory! He'd never once, in the history of knowing her, heard her say that she couldn't remember something. It had felt like the first time he was lucid in months.

Once home, he looked at her from across the dinner table and asked, "What did we eat at the start-of-term feast in second year?"

Without glancing up from a worksheet that the therapist had sent them home with, she blurted out, "Roast chicken, mushy peas, and treacle tart. You and Harry weren't there though because you'd missed the feast thanks to crashing the car into the Whomping Willow." Blinking, she looked up, confused. "Why?"

He shrugged. "Just thinking."

Hermione didn't forget anything.

Which meant she was either lying . . . or something much, much worse.

The next day, Hermione had gone to work, and Ron sent an owl to George saying that he needed the day off. He _scoured_ their home. He knew it _had_ to be there. He found it in the parlour. He had walked it so many times without ever really seeing it before: a Pensieve.

Hermione had been _so_ swamped at work lately, that she had felt the need to clear some mental cobwebs and take out the extraneous memories. It wasn't something _everyone_ did, but Ron understood the need, considering the amount of details she needed to keep straight when it came to her job. He remembered from his brief days as an Auror that some solicitors and Aurors kept memories of cases stored outside of their mind so that they could watch and review memories repeatedly to gain an outside perspective. He recalled joking with Harry that he'd like to pull out the memory of winning the Quidditch Cup fifth year so that he could rewatch himself in that final game.

Digging in her things and using counter-charms he'd learned in the Auror Academy—that might've not been entirely legal since he was no longer a Ministry employee—he found a secret compartment in her desk beneath a stack of paperwork on house-elf rights, Wolfsbane distribution, and other boring things from her days working with the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

Ron had found four bottles and hastily began pouring them, one by one, into the Pensieve to view.

The first bottle had the stored memory of their first night together. He watched as his younger self clumsily pawed at her breasts—gods, her young, childless tits had been amazing. He'd been just like all of his life up to that point: overexcited and inadequate for the job at hand. He came quickly. She was clearly left unsatisfied. The grin on his younger face was wide and clueless. Ron didn't blame Hermione for taking this out of her memory rotation. _He_ had forgotten that night himself and _without_ the aid of magic.

The second was a _large_ bottle, nearly three times the size of the others.

It contained every single second of every Quidditch game she had ever watched.

He could see cuts among the memories where she'd purposely left behind things she wanted to stay in her head. When she turned away from the game to speak to people, the conversations were skipped over in the Pensieve memory. When she left to buy food, was distracted by something, or any myriad number of reasons she looked away from the actual game. Everything else revolving around Quidditch was there. Everything . . . except . . . Harry.

The moments up to, but not including, when she had focused on Harry _fucking_ Potter were not there. The first time Harry had caught a Snitch was missing. Every single Hogwarts game was missing, except the ones during fifth year, when Harry had been banned from the game. Even the family events that they'd put together after the war were all there . . . but Harry was missing from the memories.

Which meant that she'd kept _those ones_ in her head!

The third bottle had had every moment Hermione had spent dealing with Molly Weasley. From every summer at the Burrow when they'd been children, all the way up to her death and the stresses of funeral arrangements and arguments with Ron over the unhealthy way he was grieving.

While reviewing the memory of the incident before the wedding, he sighed irritably and walked to the window, looking out into the garden instead of listening to his wife and mother. He'd been dealing with this event for years and still couldn't see why it was such a big deal.

The memory played out behind him, but he focused on two gnomes in the garden, picking a fight with a stray cat that had wandered onto the grounds of the Burrow. One gnome jumped, waving its arms in distraction while the second tackled the cat sidelong. Two more gnomes came out of the weeds, grabbed the cat's legs and dragged it back into the bushes. He remembered seeing smoke rising from the grounds that night, accompanied by a small fire. He'd never investigated before but now knew why the gnomes had been so fat that year.

Ron looked over his shoulder. The memory was still playing, and he groaned. He had lived this all once before, and Hermione—having the habit of never letting anything go—had made sure he relived it frequently, so his interest in watching it all in an out-of-body sort of way was nil.

The fourth bottle's lid was loose; evidence of having been opened and reopened many times before. Curious to see what was so bloody important, Ron poured the memories out and placed his face in the Pensive, feeling the cool liquid touch his temples. The sight before him made it feel like the bottom of his stomach had fallen out, and a chill ran down his spine as though someone had walked over his grave.

He swallowed hard and whispered, "I knew it."


	8. Returning to Ron (Part 2)

**Returning to Ron (Part Two)**

* * *

 **In the Pensieve**

When Ron let the Pensieve pull him into Hermione's most viewed memory, he was immediately encircled by her office at the Ministry of Magic. There were various organised piles of papers stacked on her desk, and the photographs she'd always kept had been moved to the wall in a place of importance next to _Daily Prophet_ clippings of Wizengamot announcements over legislation that had been passed because of her. The Order of Merlin hung—at Rose and Hugo's insistence—right beside pictures of them. A wedding photo used to hang in its place, but she'd angrily taken it down during an argument when Ron had said something truly horrible to her.

He wasn't focused on the photographs, however.

Hermione and Draco Malfoy were standing at her desk arguing about his finances and the origin of said finances. The argument was getting heated and so Hermione turned to the door and cast a Silencing Charm at it.

"You're so frustrating!" she shouted, "I won't allow you to . . . infect everyone else's workday with your pig-headedness!"

"I'm pig-headed?" Malfoy asked incredulously. "You're the stubbornest, swottiest bitch I've ever met! I didn't do anything wrong. I just am used to a certain lifestyle and the funds needed to exist within that are currently out of my grasp. I didn't break any rules; I barely even _bent_ them!"

"Ugh!" she yelled in exasperation, fed up.

"You can be such a child, Hermione."

Ron's eyes widened. _Hermione?_

"You never let anything go and you never let anything go." The Slytherin grinned, his eyes lighting up mischievously in a look that expressed familiarity. "This is why your arsehole husband is a drunk, you know."

Hermione, hair sparking at the ends, got in Draco's face, "Fuck you!"

"Fuck _you_ ," he said back but not angrily. Amused, Draco pressed forward quickly, closing the few inches left between them and kissed her hard.

Hermione pulled back for just a second in shock, her eyes wide with surprise and . . . and something else. Something Ron hadn't seen in a very, very long time. Squaring the man up, likely gauging his intentions, Hermione recklessly dove back in, pressing her mouth to his. Draco pulled his tongue out of her mouth just long enough to cast a Locking Charm on the door for good measure; just because someone wouldn't pass by and _hear_ them didn't mean they wouldn't just walk in if a knock went unanswered.

Hermione tugged at his shirt, popping some of the buttons and exposing Draco's alabaster chest. She ran her hands along the hard musculature she found, her eyes half-lidded with desire. While Draco worked to divest her of her blouse, Hermione's hands were on his belt. She undid the clasp and unbuttoned his trousers quickly to find that he wasn't wearing any pants. Lost in the dizziness of the moment, and overwhelmed by adrenaline and desire, she fell to her knees and wrapped a hand around his hard cock.

She looked up at him then, a flicker of hesitation in her expression. "Should we be doing this?"

Draco looked her in the eyes, boring into her soul with the intensity of his gaze. "When was the last time you and the weasel were together?" he asked, affectionately stroking his fingers along her jaw. "When was the last time you made his cock _this_ hard just by thinking of you?" Draco pushed his hips forward, thrusting slightly in her hand and groaned. Hermione whimpered at the sound. "I know _I_ want to do this, Granger. If you don't, walk away. I'll think nothing less of you."

Hermione sat a moment thinking, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. Her eyes met his again and he smirked at her. Not the way he did so many years ago when they were children and he was being cruel, but in a flirtatious, familiar way that said they might've been at least friends before this moment and months—maybe years—of pent up frustration brought things to a head.

She glanced ahead at the rock hard prick in her hand. "Be a shame to waste it," was all she said before she leaned forward and wrapped her lips around his length, plunging from the tip to the root and groaning at the enjoyment of feeling him in the back of her throat.

Draco hissed in pleasure. He put his hand on the back of her head, wrapped his fingers in her curls and began to guide her gently up and down his shaft. At first, it was slow feeling her out, but then she moved her hand behind him, gripping his arse and digging her nails into his flesh. The leverage helped to pull him further into her mouth, and Draco sped up thrusting in response. Getting close to the edge of coming, he pulled back and whispered, "A sword is no sword without its sheath."

"Hmm?" Hermione started but caught the meaning quickly and her cheeks flushed with colour. "I'm not so sure . . ." she began to say as she stood. She looked again into Draco's eyes. Her thighs clenched together tightly, the need . . . the pure driving need to fuck him was overwhelming. It had been far too long since she'd been made to feel like this. Wanted, desired . . . anything but . . . but awful. "Why protest?" she finally said. "I want you inside me, Draco, and I don't want to fight it anymore. Make me feel like I never have before."

Draco held onto her hips as he shifted places with her, pushing her up against her desk. The man went to his knees, running his hands up her legs. He skimmed a finger up her skirt and around the elastic of her knickers. He grinned, tugged, and let them fall down around her ankles. His left hand lifted her skirt up and with his right, he put two fingers inside of her, stroking slowly in come-hither motions. Draco attached his mouth to her pussy and, like the snake he was, flicked his tongue against her clit. Glancing up, his gaze caught hers just before her eyes rolled into the back of her head.

Once her shaking had slowed, Draco lifted her to sit on her desk edge. He leaned forward over her shoulder casting a spell at the stacks of papers, clearing them from the desk. Hermione kicked one foot out of her knickers, freeing her legs, watching as Draco took a step back to look at her, stroking himself. She put a hand to her slit and spread her lips to him, running a finger over her clit.

"Fuck," Draco groaned at the sight and stepped back, positioning himself between her thighs and thrusting inside her.

Ron stood inside of the memory, watching Draco Malfoy plunge in and out of Hermione—his wife! After a few minutes, they rotated places and Hermione eagerly climbed on top of the blond. Malfoy held her to him, her back to his chest as she sunk down on his length. When their rhythm picked back up, he leaned back against the desk and watched, enraptured, as Hermione rocked above him.

Had she ever been so exposed, so vulnerable, so passionate and heated with _him_? From where Ron stood, he was able to see everything. He watched as she fell down and came up again, sliding on the man's cock. He could see every inch that stroked in and out of his wife. Unable to stop himself—just as he was unable to look away from the horror—Ron bitterly measured and knew that—at least in _one_ area—he absolutely came up short against Draco Malfoy. He watched the two climax together, the blond spilling himself inside her.

Catching her breath, Hermione precariously climbed off, and Draco held her carefully to make sure she didn't fall when her feet touched the floor again. Her knees were shaking and she laughed softly, clinging to his arm. Hermione _thanked_ him for being so considerate.

Ron looked at their faces and saw their eyes meet; there was no anger, no hate, no sadness, no lingering childhood animosity. He could see they liked what had just happened.

He could see they were already thinking about doing it again.

"We should do that again," Draco said smiling. "Soon."

Unable to hear whether Hermione agreed, or if she came to a horrifying realisation of what she'd done and worse, what might've led her there, Ron held his wand up. He'd seen enough. Pulled quickly from the Pensieve, he gripped his hands on the edge of the stone bowl and felt himself back to reality. He stood up straight, his face wet with tears and the goop that was stored memories. He teetered for a moment and the firewhisky he'd drank earlier came up violently into the Pensieve, irreparably soiling the memory. He stood to his full height again when the firewhisky asked for a repeat performance.

Feeling empty—physically and emotionally—his vision clearing, the room came back to him again. Wiping the remains of his stomach contents off of his face, he turned around, eager to wash up.

Hermione stood in the centre of the room.

He stared at her.

Grocery bags in hand—always insisting on carrying them inside rather than use magic—Ron could see ingredients for Hugo's favourite meal. She'd clearly planned on getting things ready for the children to return home from Shell Cottage.

Her eyes flicked to the Pensieve, her open drawers, the various bottles on the counter near him and she sighed before her gaze finally turned back to Ron.

"So," she said, "you finally know."


	9. Over a Ruined Pensieve

**Over a Ruined Pensieve**

* * *

" _So," she said, "you finally know."_

"Yeah, you could say that," Ron said glumly, still wiping the sick from his mouth.

"I ended it. With Draco, I mean," Hermione added quickly, setting down their groceries. "I didn't mean for you to find that, those."

"Like I give a fuck that you hate Quidditch or my mum; I already knew both of those things. I notice you kept your one class of Divination, though. You cared about that fifteen minutes with Harry, did ya?" he spat angrily, glaring at her as the words tumbled out of his mouth. "But Malfoy . . . I mean how much do you _hate_ me . . . you fucked _Malfoy_? You're not even calling him Malfoy anymore. It's _Draco_ for you now, is it? You can call him _Draco_ if you've had his cock, that it? Doesn't mean good things about Lucius then, I'm afraid!" Ron's face was getting red, he could feel heat building in his stomach reaching for his throat. Tears sprung to his eyes, unbidden.

Hermione bit her lower lip and began wringing her fingers. "Ronald, don't cry."

"Oh, fuck off. Last thing you should be doing now is telling me what to do. Twat." The word had slipped out; he had meant it and he hadn't at the same time. The anger had ahold of him now. Though Hermione's eyes were wide with shock, he continued, "How many?"

"Ronald . . ."

"STOP RONALDING ME!" he bellowed."How many?"

Hermione waited a beat. "With Draco?"

Ronald, boiling over, froze. Hermione never said anything that wasn't worth mentioning, even for clarification. The fact that she needed to clarify the question had him sweating, even as the chill ran up his spine. He spoke very carefully, enunciating everything he could, "What do you mean 'with Draco'?"

A single tear ran down Hermione's left cheek. "Ron. We . . . we haven't made love in _years_."

"We, meaning who? Because _you've_ clearly been . . . _active_ . . . without me."

"It was just Draco, twice. Then," she hesitated for a very long time before whispering, "Harry."

"I fucking KNEW IT!" Ron proclaimed, almost cheering. "Godsdamned Harry _fucking_ Potter!"

Eager to move forward as quickly as possible to get through the anger—and slightly annoyed that he'd seemed so victorious over the moment—Hermione explained, "Harry had heard about what happened with Draco. Then Ginny left. We both were lonely."

"I'm the last to know about Malfoy?! What _don't_ you tell Harry?!" he snapped at her. "Apparently not 'No'."

" _Draco_ was the one who told Harry," she corrected.

"Word got around. So did _you_."

He glared back at the pensieve as though it were in on the joke that was his failed marriage. Suddenly, his gaze wandering over the bottles, he noted something important. "You pulled the memories of Malfoy out of your head. Where's the ones of Harry?"

Hermione looked away from him, and he growled, "You kept them. You kept Harry.

Shocked by his hate, despite knowing it was mostly justified, Hermione was thrown off by the venom in his words. She'd expected anger, of course, but had likely thought sadness would overwhelm his rage. She was outwardly crying now—not sobbing—just no longer able to hold the tears back. "I'm sorry, Ron. I am. I never meant for it all to happen."

He shook his head. "How can you say that? I _watched_ you! You made the decisions! No one forced you. You . . . decided. _You_ did. I _saw_ it."

"You're right," she agreed almost as if she was realising, just now, that she was not the victim here. "I'm sorry."

"Me too." He took a long drink from the firewhisky bottle beside him, gulping several times. "I'm afraid of what I'm going to do next."

Trained by war as a child, despite knowing he'd never hurt her, Hermione instinctively reached for the wand she had stowed in the pocket of her robes. "What do you mean?"

He walked over to the fireplace. A small fire was there dwindling, suffocating. Ron bent at the knees grabbing a few bits of wood adding them to the burning embers. He held his hand too long too close to the flame, feeling physical pain almost sighing at the brief relief from the emotional pain that was overpowering him.

"Ron," Hermione repeated, trying to regain his attention.

Ron stood feigning obliviousness, gritting his teeth. "Yes. My. Love?"

She nervously lifted her chin, adjusting the grip on her wand and solidifying her stance; one foot placed behind the other to ground herself. "What are you going to do?"

Ron threw the antique bottle into the fire; it roared in response. "Something I should have done a long time ago." He shoved a hand into a small bowl above the fireplace and grasped the contents. "Something stupid. Something . . . brave?" He shrugged. "Well, if all those aren't true then at least it'll be something satisfying."

Her eyes widened at the sight of the Floo Powder in his hand. "Ron, we should talk."

"There'll be time for that . . . maybe." Throwing the contents of his hand into the Floo that suddenly became a blazing inferno of green flames, he shouted "Malfoy _fucking_ Manor!" and vanished away.


	10. Manners and Manors

**A/N:** I added a bit of an aside to the whitewashing and actor swapping of the movies in this chapter. Because it's still ridiculous that they did that.

* * *

 **Manners and Manors**

* * *

Lucius Malfoy had, up to that moment, been reading quietly in his favourite chair in front of a small but warm fire. That was then; _now_ his reality was one of ash, soot, and a ginger man standing on his hearth. He raised a slender, pale eyebrow at the filthy and stinking wizard that stood before him. The automatic sneer was a reflex at this point in his life. "Yes?"

"Draco," Ron spat.

"Cissa?" Lucius called and waited several moments. "Narcissa?" Again moments passed.

"Yes?" came a voice from somewhere far away in the massive house.

"The boy?"

"He's out dear, why?"

"An . . . _inconvenience_ is here. I'll take care of it, darling," Lucius called back, never raising his volume above his regular speech. "Draco appears to be out," he flatly confirmed to Ron.

"Fuck!" Ron replied.

Somewhere within the large manor, Narcissa gasped.

"I don't know what you need Draco for, but I'll thank you to watch your tongue around my wife," Lucius said with narrowed eyes. "I'm sure he'll be back any moment. Tea?" He waved a wand at a teapot and cup sitting idly on a nearby tray. The teapot levitated and hovered over the cup without spilling any of the contents as though waiting for instructions.

"I suppose," Ron said quietly, rage draining out of him, awkwardness filling its place. At his response, the teapot tipped and filled the cup.

"Sugar?"

"Please."

"Sit," Lucius demanded.

Ron took the cup, sipped and swallowed. Many years ago, he never would've accepted anything from a Malfoy, but the brief training he'd had as an Auror—not to mention working with George over the years—had taught him how to properly sniff out poisons. He made a face; tea was too bitter. It made him reflect on his current situation. "Uh, thanks."

Lucius's eyes crinkled in amusement. With another flick of his wand, more sugar was added. "Sorry, there is no milk," he said and then, when Ron brought the cup back to his lips, added, "the only thing we milk here is snakes."

Ron's eyes widened, mentally trying to recall whether or not snake venom had a specific smell. At Lucius's amused expression, Ron scowled and put the cup back down, realising that he'd actually been pranked by a Malfoy. As though the family hadn't taken enough of his pride.

"Our house-elf dropped the milk this morning," Malfoy added, exasperated. At this statement, a tiny house-elf peeked around the extravagant chair at Ron. It was in bandages almost head to foot.

"Good thing gauze doesn't count as clothes," he mused.

"Quite," Lucius said with half a smile, unconcerned, "though the wounds are self-inflicted; I assume the same for the dressings."

Ron held his cup in both hands absorbing the warmth that was missing from his host. He stared at the fire and every few moments took another sip of tea. He glanced at Lucius, who had gone back to reading as though Ron weren't even there. "Sorry for the intrusion."

"Nonsense," Lucius said with a dramatic sigh, closing the book as if to say _I guess we can talk since you won't let me read._ "You've come without invitation, burst into our home through what I previously assumed was a secure Floo Network," the man said, inferring that Ron had used less than legal means to obtain access to the property; be they former Auror tactics or Weasley tricks, "and you made a mess on my floor." He gestured to the area in front of the fireplace. "However, as you are already here, and a former _schoolmate_ of my son, you will find yourself welcome."

Ron ignored the comment about being a former schoolmate of Draco's. Instead, he reflected on the comment of being welcome inside Malfoy Manor. "This time," he said, thinking back to when he was a prisoner here in this home, well over a decade ago.

"Yes," Lucius agreed, another half smile. The man didn't look the least bit contrite." _This_ time."

"Quite," Ron sarcastically parroted his host's earlier tone.

"So," Lucius began with a drawl, "how is that . . . _lovely_ wife of yours? Still the brightest witch of her age?"

"She's part of the reason I'm here," Ron replied cagily.

"Mmmm yes, Draco being the other part."

"Yeah."

Not one to let the particular subject of conversation go now that it had become interesting, Lucius held back a grin as he prompted, "It took you a while to find out. Did your swotty wife break down and confess, or did you somehow clue yourself in?"

Ron's eyes widened, enraged again. "Malfoy told you," he spat.

"I'm his father. _Malfoy_ tells me everything," Lucius said incredulously, finding obvious enjoyment in Ron's embarrassment and shame. The most amusing fact was that he spoke the truth.

Draco had taken the helm of the Malfoy family in trying to regain their wealth and, despite having initially objected to his working with the Muggle-born to be mostly in accordance with the law, Lucius approved of his son's investments. However, when Draco had come home one evening, confessing over a shared decanter of single malt, that he'd begun an affair with the famous Muggle-born, all Lucius advised his son was to not get the witch pregnant. While he had learned to stand the integration of their society since the fall of the Dark Lord, his own bloodline would remain pure. However, it was entertaining, to say the least, to learn that his son was literally fucking the victors, who had essentially stolen their wealth for so-called reparations.

"I've never bragged to my dad about the girls _I've_ shagged," Ron said defensively.

Lucius truly laughed now. "Not much occasion to brag, I'd wager, _boy_. That aside, were there women that you bedded at some point that irked your father? Not upset him in a way that bothered him on a day to day basis, but perhaps a long forgotten annoyance?"

Ron thought hard for a moment before blurting out, "Lavender Brown," and then quickly adding, "and one of the Patil twins; they look a lot alike, so I didn't know which was which witch?" he offered, the tips of his ears growing red with embarrassment.

Lucius smirked. "So, no, then."

"Lavender was pretty fit, though," Ron explained.

"She was the attractive black girl, correct?"

"No," Ron corrected, "she was white when I dated her."

"Metamorphmagus, maybe," Lucius mused. "Irrelevant, and again you've missed the point. What I'm referring to, is the fact that your wife was a conquest. You, my boy, are the collateral damage."

"So Malfoy—" Ron started, but with a withering look from Lucius, corrected, " _Draco_ , wasn't being an assho—" Another look and another gasp from out of the room far in the distance. Ron sighed. "A _jerk_."

"When you found out, did the affair seem in any way to be about _you_?"

Ron sat and pondered for a moment, sipping his tea before answering, "No?"

"Go with you instincts, boy." Lucius patted the man on his shoulder. "Do stop by anytime, _after_ sufficient notice." He reached up grabbed Floo Powder in a firm hand and threw it in the fire saying, "Ron Weasley's . . . _hovel_ ," and pushed the redhead into the green flames, watching him vanish.

Standing adjacent to it, Lucius sniffed at the chair Ron had sat in. "We'll need to burn this," he said aloud to Narcissa, wherever she was. Finger by finger, he tugged at the gloves that had touched the man, placing them on the seat of the chair before adding, "and these."

With one last flick of a wand, the lord of Malfoy Manor held up his hands to have them magically covered by a pair of new gloves that were even more velvety and ornate than the last. Lucius sat again, opening his book. "That boy will be the death of me."

Again he half smiled, not knowing for sure if he was talking about Weasley or Draco.


End file.
